


barriers

by remnantof



Category: DCU, DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Information Technology, Anal Sex, Bukkake, Canon-Typical Violence, Confined/Caged, Dream Sex, Knifeplay, M/M, POV Third Person, Rough Sex, Technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-13
Updated: 2011-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:51:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remnantof/pseuds/remnantof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim/Jason, subconscious/Unternet PWP, sex in The Case.  For <a href="http://deandraws.tumblr.com/">deandraws</a> based on <a href="http://dean-draws.livejournal.com/39358.html">this picture.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	barriers

**Author's Note:**

> reposted from tumblr by the author

The nature of the Unternet makes it impossible not to keep tabs on Lonnie: Tim visits regularly, even if the freedom and self-examination inherent in such a place makes him uncomfortable. _Because_ it makes him uncomfortable.

Certain things deserve to be faced. Benign costume changes that remind him whose shadow he’s never going to escape; disgusting, Freudian intersects of friend and foe; weapons, _guns_ , that feel too good in his hands.

Things hidden even more deeply, things even the Unternet can’t keep him from making private.

He finds the case in an alley, tucked away like something in the center of a maze (another reason he doesn’t enjoy these trips: the Unternet, or maybe just his mind, isn’t as organized as he’d like, even if it’s often incredibly _literal_ ). The _Case_ , that he’s trained in front of, sat in front of, been _thrown_ through, and he’s not surprised to see it here, though he’s a little afraid of what he might learn. What it actually means to him, especially in a place that doesn’t know enough about subtlety. Tim approaches it—with more reverence than caution, even now—a little thrill curling in his chest as he stares at the familiar costume in this unfamiliar place, as he touches just the tips of his gloved fingers to the glass.

 _Thick_ glass, he knows, though he was never sure if it was meant to keep something out, or keep something in, and it isn’t hard to imagine Jason as he is now, alive and smirking—

behind the glass. Because he’s standing there, lifting a hand to wave at Tim with that smirk fixed on his lips, and Tim startles back away from the glass until he meets—more glass.

He’s the one in the case, now, and Jason’s smirk lifts as he crosses his arms behind his back and starts to circle it. At first the sound of his voice is muffled, a hum vibrating through thick glass, the flash of his teeth in the shadows of the alley, but Tim’s been here often enough to know he just has to get over that, has to _want_ to hear what Jason’s saying, and he will. After that, it’s just a matter of working up the will to _want to hear what Jason’s saying_.

“—used to look to me, used to want to be me, little bird. You used to mouthbreath on my fucking case and hope to be as good as I was, someday.”

Tim listens but doesn’t move, doesn’t breath, even as Jason circles into his blind spot. Even as the back of the case opens and Jason’s hands come to rest on his shoulders. “But we both know what a good boy I’m not,” Jason whispers, and maybe Tim lets Jason shove him into the glass because he’s trying to figure out what Jason represents here, or maybe he lets Jason shove him into the glass because he _wants_ him to. It’s cold against his cheek and the sharp lines of the mask bite into his skin, are going to—not leave marks, not in the real world.

That shouldn’t be disappointing, but the heat of Jason’s breath against his ear is a good distraction. It’s reflexive, wanting to respond, but this isn’t actually Jason. This isn’t actually a conversation, and he doesn’t have to ask Jason to stop, or egg him on, because he’s—exactly what Tim wants him to be? What someone else in the Unternet wants him to be? Tim could tell himself this is Jason, that he’s found a way in and is just fucking with him some more, is taking control of the space, but he’s not sure if the lie would make him feel better or worse. It certainly wouldn’t stop him from pushing his hands against the glass, bracing them in the corners of the case and shivering when Jason pulls the cape to the side. “Little bird’s a little too attached to this,” he says, folding it deliberately at the shoulder, and it’s a familiar feeling, doing something just to prove Jason wrong, when Tim forces the cape to disappear.

Jason leans in close, the hot weight of him pushing Tim into the glass and it’s time to wish the jock _well_ away. “Can you make me disappear too,” he breathes, before sucking at the soft spot behind Tim’s ear. It makes him whimper, screw his eyes shut behind the mask: it would answer a lot of questions Tim doesn’t want to have if he did, if he made this _stop_ , but he’s not sure he can get it all back if he does, and Jason, or his subconscious, is making a very good case for why Jason should _stay_. Like the line of Jason’s cock pressed to the seam of his costume, moving against his ass and he still can’t tell if he _made_ Jason’s jeans be open for that or if he was distracted when Jason opened them, but surely it means something that Jason can open this costume, can find the seams and clasps and shove the lower half down Tim’s thighs even if the costume isn’t something Jason would know, doesn’t _exist_ for him.

He wants Jason’s mask gone, wants his own mask gone, but this—this isn’t a safe place, isn’t even really a private place if another power user comes out here, and the temptation is half to see if he can get rid of it. The lenses are down when he finds Jason’s reflection in the glass: he can’t see his eyes until he focuses, makes the reflection _clearer_ , but they’re. Perfect, dark, focused, and Tim still doesn’t know how much of this is him, still isn’t sure how much he _wants_ to be him. Is this a coping mechanism? Is he have sex in the case to keep himself from examining what being trapped in the case with Jason _means?_

He wouldn’t put it past himself, honestly, and he can’t say it isn’t working when Jason bites him through the light armor on his shoulder and starts opening him with slick fingers, like something in a dream or bad erotic fiction: jumps from one act to the next without transition, without the pauses and lulls of sex where he can climb a little deeper into his head, maybe transport them and the case to a fucking _cave_ instead of an alley. Instead, he’s trying to find friction against a glass wall and pushing himself back against Jason’s fingers, doesn’t care what’s outside the glass right now and doesn’t care if Jason is some definition of real or not, because he’s _Robin_ and he’s _not_ , neither of them are Robin, just two more failures in a glass box and it feels surprisingly _good_.

“God you’re fucked up,” Jason groans, bracing his other hand on the fogged glass beside Tim’s open mouth, his thumb hard and calloused and right _there_ for Tim to suck on, because it would just be sad to start talking back. “It’s not about in or out,” he adds, close again, whispering and pushing in with a third finger, making it like a _joke_ , making a laugh hiccup out of Tim. “It keeps things separate. Life and death, failure and success, outcast and…family.” Tim makes a low, pained sound, lets Jason crowd him a little more and decide he’s _ready_ , because he can’t—he can’t—

he can’t decide what that breathless pause meant, still means, but then Jason is pushing in and the stretch-burn-god keep breathing don’t stop don’t _stop_ is real enough, makes him push back and groan and he knows he only feels the pain because he wants to, that he doesn’t actually know if—if Jason would put his slick hand in his hair and smack his head against the glass a little like a reminder that it’s _there_ and they’re on the same _side_ of it—but even if they mean something, even if they don’t, are just something he _wants_ , they make it so much better. Jason pulling his hair and biting his throat, fucking him hard and fast like he doesn’t _care_ , like he knows he can’t actually hurt Tim or maybe like he doesn’t care if he _does_. Tim wants to ask what it is but this. This isn’t Jason, and he doesn’t want to know that much about himself.

“You’ve been fighting to protect a legacy you don’t always believe in,” Jason growls, pushing hard enough to _push_ him, make his skin and his suit squeak against the glass and Tim tips his head back to moan, gets his nose shoved painfully into the barrier and it’s not broken, it’s not, but blood drips down over his mouth and chin and his whimper has a nasal quality it didn’t before. When he tries to reach back for Jason’s hair, get his attention back on his throat, Jason grabs his wrist and crushes it back into place, pins it to the glass. “You can still be as good as me, Tim. You can still do what we both know is _right_ ,” and Tim squirms, exhales sharp enough to spray blood on the glass and Jason leans over his shoulder, licks a stripe through it before licking his way into Tim’s mouth. Jason holds him there a moment, straining his neck, pulling his head back to lick the blood from his chin until neither of them (Tim) can stand it. Jumps again, Jason pulling out and Jason turning him around; the flash of his knife and Tim’s tights are cut, cling to his legs like armored stockings as Jason forces them apart and pushes him back against the glass, cracks his head on it and holds it in place with another kiss, hard and bruising but at least he isn’t _talking_ anymore.

Just scraping the edge of that blade against Tim’s thigh until he takes the cue, wraps his legs around Jason’s waist and they shift until Jason can push back in, until they’re fogging the walls of the case and filling it with wet sounds: skin on skin and groans, whimpers, the perfect rainfall hiss of Jason’s knife cutting apart the rest of Tim’s armor and drawing the faintest trails of blood on his skin. Jason’s tongue licking them clean again and again, pushing the skin apart until it stings like he’s being cut all over again. The inexorable moment, and rhythm, of Jason’s hand on his cock, drawing every thrust and burn and sting into the heat gathering in his belly, the mindwipe of an orgasm that is exactly what he wants it to be and constructed out of every orgasm he’s had, a memory of a feeling imposed on him the second he stops wanting this to _last_.

When Jason drops him his skin skids and burns against the glass, his body burns from the sudden loss of Jason’s cock and he still lands in a fucked-stupid pile on the bottom of the case, still stares hazily up at Jason when he leans over him and starts jacking himself, snapping his hips and fucking his hand. And for a moment Tim lets himself doubt, lets himself think _he’s here_ , that Jason is leaning over him and appreciating the sight: the destroyed uniform, the angry scratches on his skin, the dried blood and spit—the stripes of come that are hot on his skin, an absence where the mask protects him as Jason shudders and stops and aims at his face. It feels real, tastes—

tastes like his own come, and Tim slumps against the glass with a sigh, staring up at Jason’s flushed, open face before banishing the mask. Banishing Jason entirely.

“It’s not right,” he murmurs, wallowing another moment against the glass.

He can’t pretend he’s talking to anyone but himself.


End file.
